Her bottom was already turning pink. I redoubled my efforts, raining blows on the unprotected rear of my brand-new bride. She struggled ever harder and I whacked ever harder.
I got into my rhythm and saw the pink turn to red, then deep red. I felt sweat run down my neck.
There was still plenty of spanking left in me when Jay convulsed and let out a long and loud cry.
'Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!'
She slumped on the table making more little cries as the aftershocks flowed through her. When Miss Lawrence has an orgasm she goes for a few encores as well.
I gave her a few more wallops for good measure then let go of her arm. She staggered to her feet holding on to the table then me for support.
'Harry, that was… ooh, Harry…'
I gathered the job had been well done. And the evening was yet young.
Jay flung her arms around my neck and kissed me fiercely.
'I'm going to dress,' she said with a last nip at my lower lip. She pulled a leather valise from under the bed and disappeared into the bathroom closing the door after her.
I stretched my fingers to ease my aching hand and put it back into shape to uncork one of the champagne bottles. Neither task took long. In a jiffy I was pouring myself a revivifying flute of Brut.
As I sipped a movement caught my eye. I saw the tail end of a mass of blonde hair pass the porthole. Miss Swat taking the air after doing whatever 'freshening up' is.
Aha! My bride's present on the hoof and requiring only to be lassoed and brought back to the ranch.
I drained the glass and slipped out of the cabin. This would only take a moment.
I examined my thoroughly chastised bottom in the bathroom mirror and wondered if the Flyswat would be up to anything kinky. I remembered her as decidedly pussy-oriented, forever with some eager guy's mouth glued to her fully shaven snatch. That's right, she was the one who complained her nether lips were permanently swollen from an excess of cunnilingus! Always looked for a cushion when she sat herself down. Somebody even made a documentary about her called 'Licked But Not Beaten.' It was all coming back to me. She was rumored to have made a minor fortune in a tongue-fest flick called 'Lickety Split', in which she basically just lay back, spread her legs and allowed a succession of cunning linguists to lap her crack to a screaming conclusion. Apparently, she was so multi-orgasmic that she'd earned a place in the Goodness! Book of XXX Records. Personally, I reckoned she faked 50%. She was certainly noisy to work with. Slowly, sensuously, I began to unfasten the remaining buttons of my dress, easing my boobs out of their silky lair, teasing my reflection as if it were the audience in a private club. I desperately longed to dance again, to slowly strip naked before a crowd of cheering men whose lustful eyes felt hot upon my shimmering, well-oiled skin. There was little that I wouldn't do in my performing days. Titty Boomboom was wild. I even posed naked with a python for my professional portrait, an image that graced the frontage of many a gentlemen's club across the land.
Wild Titty!
She'll Drive You Insane!!
Lost in my memories, I opened the smart new leather case and appraised the contents. Mmm. A pervert's treasure chest. A black fishnet body stocking. Two cans of spray-on latex, in rampant red and porno blue. Handcuffs and matching ankle cuffs, both the genuine article, no Christmas cracker imitations. The biggest, thickest dildo I had ever seen (Acme 'Challenger' model), a half-pint bottle of super-lube, edible panties, a ball gag, a set of graded nipple clamps in 'ooh!,' 'ouch!' and '*****!' and an innocuous looking silvery trinket called a clitorizer. Oh, and the ubiquitous length of rope. This collection was a little gift from me to me on the occasion of my marriage. For years I'd coveted the Deluxe Vixen Valise by Hornee of Hollywood. I'd ordered it delivered to the ship from Porn-Mart, an adult supplies warehouse that was conveniently located near the docks of Fort Lauderdale. Harry would get a little surprise on his credit card but hell, a girl didn't get hitched every day of the week! And I just knew he'd love the body stocking.
'Hmm, what's this?'
I was just slipping out of my dress and was poised to ease my flesh into the fishnet creation, when I spotted the little book in the bottom of the case. It wasn't included in the list of contents so it seemed to be a free gift. How nice. There was an arty photograph of a well-trussed Japanese girl on the front cover. 'Self Bondage' by Ty Tilasing. Now, there was something I'd never tried before. Never really saw the appeal, to be truthful.
I peered round the bathroom door but the cabin was empty. My other half must have nipped out to fetch some supplies. A wicked thought entered my mind. I'd gift-wrap myself for my husband's pleasure. Eager to prepare myself for Harry's return, I wriggled my warm and willing body into the fishnet body stocking, then replaced my high-heeled shoes. The busty creature in the bathroom mirror squeezed her bodacious DD-cups through the silky spider's web and wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue. I remembered a particularly popular stage routine in which I wore a very similar suit. I'd invite a guy up onto the stage and offer him the end of the thread. He had three minutes to unravel what he could and what flesh he uncovered he could lick when the time was up. Most guys got hopelessly tangled, to widespread amusement, but usually managed to reveal a boob or two. One smooth mover actually got me naked. It was the only time I had my pussy licked to orgasm on stage and it was really rather incredible. I always wondered whether he made fishing nets for a living.
Flipping through the little bondage book, I opted for a wildly draconian yet relatively simple to achieve option called 'Up amp; Under.' In the accompanying photograph, the long-suffering Japanese girl stood stoically on a wooden chair, her wrists attached to an overhead rail. There were small metal clamps on her nipples and her clit and a bright blue ball gag in her mouth. Her legs were spread, the ankles rather fetchingly roped to the back of the chair. A huge pink dildo, just like the one in my Vixen Valise, had been inserted deep into her sweet little pussy and her eyes were glazed. Smiling to myself, I fetched a footstool from the cabin and placed it beneath the shower curtain rail. Then I set to work with the book propped open for reference and the box of sensual delights…
I shot down the corridor and out onto the deck with a beckoning cry on my lips. It was stillborn as no one but a bunch of staggering Cleveland pensioners met my roving eye. They seemed to be trying to imitate Jay's dance. I averted my gaze rapidly.
A quick reconnaissance would do no harm. I knew that Jay getting into war regalia could be a time- consuming procedure. She was nothing if not a perfectionist. All the same, I would have to keep my skates on to be back in time for some serious kinkiness.
The nearest door led to the Sharp End Bar. As good a place as any for a lady to seek shelter from the night. I pushed open the heavy weather-proof door and cast my eyes around. Some late revelers I had not yet had the pleasure of meeting slurped their late night bourbon. I marked them down for introductions and jollies later in the cruise.
I was about to resume my search elsewhere when I caught sight of a solitary figure propping up the bar. He had a glass of amber liquid in his hand and a lugubrious expression on his face. A brief diversion with my detective hat on was called for – seize the moment, and all that.
'Good evening again, Doctor. What will you have?'
'Glen Tipplet, and I thank ye, sir. Mr. Neptune, isn't it? My eyes are nae what they used to be.'
His eyes were nae what they used to be a couple of hours ago, but everyone to his own. This looked like a nightly performance. I ordered the same.
'So what's the story on the deceased Spaniard? Who pulled the trigger?'
'That's a mystery, laddie. A complete mystery. Ah'm baffled.'
Befuddled more like. He leaned toward me confidentially.
'Och, and there's another mystery. When the clumsy sailors dumped his deid body on the sick bay table a sliver of wood fell to the floor. The silly Jack Tar who picked it up pricked his fool finger and fell in convulsions on the floor. He's a lucky wee boy it was no more than a prick. He'll live wi' a tale to tell.'
'Are you telling me someone fired a poison dart at Lothario? As well as the bullet? How did they do that in those few seconds of darkness?'
